


One Man And His Wardrobe

by khazadspoon



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: He's ridin' solo, Masturbation, Other, THE DRESS, alludes to james and les vesconte having 'relations' at some point in the past, existential angst while getting off in the arctic, gender nonconformity, the impending threat of scurvy, you know like bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khazadspoon/pseuds/khazadspoon
Summary: With so little comfort to be found in such wilds and wastes as the far North, with so few pastimes that did not remind one of the unending dread surrounding all of them, one turned to the most basic of comforts.-----James Fitzjames spends an evening alone with The Dress.





	One Man And His Wardrobe

With so little comfort to be found in such wilds and wastes as the far North, with so few pastimes that did not remind one of the unending dread surrounding all of them, one turned to the most basic of comforts. 

One turned to sex. 

Well… sex was generally thought of as an act between two people (or more, and James knew a little of that subject though he shared it with very few people). What James had in mind was rather more simple and singular. A one-man-job if you would. 

Bridgens had retired for the evening with assurances that James was not, in fact, in need of his services for the rest of the evening. The man was a known sodomite and might have said yes to a proposition but, as a vain man, James was unsure he could cope with another set of eyes on his body at that time. He thought of the agitated bruises, the sting at his hairline and the damned blood threatening to spill from his old wounds and had to fight the urge to weep. He would  _ not  _ weep, not when there was finally something soft to be found. 

He reached into the sea chest brought into the Captain’s berth and carefully lifted the dress from it’s confines. The material shimmered and shone in the lamplight. James lay it on his bunk and ran a hand down the bodice, smoothed out the creases, bit his lip as gentle currents of fevered want began to flutter in his stomach. He stripped the waistcoat, the jumper, the undershirt and breeches from his frame, draped them over the back of his chair and unlaced the dress. 

When it fell over his head he stifled a low moan. The act of dressing in such a manner was, in and of itself, a sensual experience. To take an item of clothing so at odds with how the world saw oneself was freeing in a way James had long known he needed to feel. The softness of it against his bare skin was a marvel. The sleeves were a tad tight on his arms, and no doubt the stitches would not stand any rigorous movement (which quite eliminated the idea of inviting other parties to the event, whether with the aim to seduce or entertain) but James relished the tightness. It would leave welts on his skin, kind ones of satisfaction instead of punishment. He thought of Les Vesconte and chuckled to himself. No doubt the man would laugh fundly at his appearance - he had seen James dressed in such clothing before and would of course ask for a dance, and if he was lonely and cold enough in this damnable place he might have asked for more. The idea was quickly set aside; James was doing this for  _ himself _ , not for another. 

The laces were difficult to tie, what with being at his back, but he managed. His fingers caught and ached, his nails brittle and tender. He ignored that, too, and tightened the laces as best he could. Then, with a shiver as his prick began to stiffen between his thighs, he set the skirts to right with shaking hands. 

In the cloudy mirror he saw himself standing tall, his neck long and elegant, his hair shining in the light and a rosy glow in his cheeks. He looked  _ well _ . There was no sickness belied in that mirror, no desperation and despair, only a pretty face in an elegant gown. 

James swirled the skirts and pressed his thighs together, tightened his grip on the fabric to press it to his cock and jerked his hips at the sudden friction. It made him gasp. With one hand he reached up and pressed a hand to his chest, rubbed it against his nipple and shuddered. He thought of himself with breasts, found the idea wanting, and set to enjoying the body he had and the delights it held. 

His hand was blessedly warm as he sat and plunged it under his skirts. The skin of his thighs became sensitive as he dragged his fingers over the soft hair, traced patterns into the skin at the crease of his groin. His cock jumped, vied for attention as he parted his thighs for better access. With a little breathy sigh he cupped his balls, rolled them in his palm and tugged gently for the thrill of it. His finger pressed just behind and the sigh was louder, pushed from deep in his chest up his throat. When he gripped his cock in one tight fist it was like a punch to his gut, He groaned into one sleeved forearm and shuddered as his fingers squeezes. 

Masturbation was a natural act, one James had partaken in many times. He knew all the ways to make his own body sing, knew how to tug his cock and twist his wrist at the head to make his own toes curl and his eyes lose clarity. He arched his back and lay down, let the skirts gather at his hips and reveal his legs, his thighs, his aching cock to the cool air. His hand moved faster, grip loosening a little to aid the action, pearlescent liquid easing the glide of his fingers as his fist dragged up and down his cock. 

A litany of curses built behind his teeth, formed thick on his tongue and blasphemous in his mouth. He swallowed them and bit into the fabric of the sleeve, tasted the must and dust and found it didn’t lessen his arousal. Then, acting almost on impulse, he sucked a finger into his mouth and wet it with the curses he thought he had swallowed. He hitched one leg high, bracing his foot on the cabin wall and pressed a finger into-

“ _ Fuck _ -” 

A single curse, not blasphemy but coarse nonetheless. The pressure, the intensity of a single finger in his arse made his cock jerk in his grip. He felt the tug in his belly and knew it wouldn’t be long. He darted a glance over at the mirror, angled to ensure he could see himself on the bed, and drew in a sharp breath. 

His skin was pink with the flush of lust, his mouth open on such a pretty ‘o’ that made his lips seem plump and red. The red and gold of the dress shimmered as the lantern flickered and James could see the shadows play across his thighs where the skirts had revealed them. His gaze fixed on the rapid rising and falling of his chest even as they flicked to his hands between his legs. 

The telltale tension in his gut began to mount. He pressed his finger deeper, moved it, grit his teeth against the ragged moan in his mouth that tasted of blood and jerked his hips in time with his fist. 

He wanted to come, to spill over in his own hand and feel the bone-deep satisfaction that came with it. His toes curled again as he angled his finger a little, bent at the tip and found that little patch of heaven that resided in the human body. With a breath that was more vibration than breath, the orgasm ran over him. His eyes fluttered shut and his hips canted, rose and stopped mid air, a shiver running from stem to stern as pleasure became the centre of his world. 

Then, with shivers of cold coming in fast, he withdrew his hands and washed them in the cold basin. The skirts rustled against the sensitive skin of his prick, his thighs, and he had to pause for a moment to let the sensation pass. 

The pinching in his ribs announced itself and the bone-deep satisfaction he had been chasing fled from him. He stripped himself bare and shucked on the nightshirt and drawers with a frown. He pushed the mirror until he couldn’t see himself anymore and settled in his cot to at least feign sleep. 


End file.
